


Smoke and Mirrors

by Carter_Lee



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017), Call Me By Your Name (2017) RPF
Genre: Angst, Clubbing, M/M, Prostitution, Smoking, There will be smut and fluff eventually, adding tags as I go
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-03
Updated: 2020-10-03
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:01:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26788645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Carter_Lee/pseuds/Carter_Lee
Summary: “We should probably get out of here,” Armie finally said after the group passed, looking at Timmy, trying to say what he wanted to without actually saying it.Timmy’s eyes lit up and he smiled seductively, leaning impossibly closer, so close that he and Armie were almost touching.“Can you afford me?”
Relationships: Timothée Chalamet/Armie Hammer
Comments: 13
Kudos: 66





	Smoke and Mirrors

While Armie laid alone in bed that night, completely nude and cocooned in the thick blanket, his legs pulled towards his chest like a fetus curled in its mother’s womb, he thought about Timmy for the first time in months. He hadn’t left the apartment in almost a week, eating whatever canned food he could scavenge in the dark, oak cabinets and obtaining entertainment in deciphering his inner dialogue -- an unsuccessful and ultimately, as Armie would come to realize, unhealthy pastime. Occasionally, he would do his thinking in the kitchen, his body’s weight pressed against a counter as a result of him having become unnaturally exhausted during those days. Whenever standing became too taxing of a chore, he would move to sit by the window, peering out to examine the bodies that made up the busy street life of Paris. However, most of his time was spent in bed: a sanctuary that he had become dependent on. If he closed his eyes and concentrated hard enough, Armie swore that he could still smell the evidence on the pillowcase of someone else who had once occupied the bed long ago.

Outside of his apartment building, the crisp wind that cut through the breeze signified the midst of autumn. People on the streets bundled themselves in thick, fluffy coats and mothers wrapped their babies in blankets as they strolled along the sidewalk. From the bedroom, despite it barely being November, Armie could hear the soft sounds of a familiar Christmas tune playing from the street, one that he had heard before but couldn’t quite remember the name of. Erratic and cheerful. He brought his pillow over his head to drown it out.

It was the first time Armie had ever visited Paris. While he had arrived three months prior, the romantic city was left largely unexplored by him. Instead, Armie explored and became familiar, similar to the way a prisoner becomes familiar with his cell, to the small apartment that confined him; an apartment which wasn’t even his, that belonged to the one person who he was trying to forget, that he couldn’t seem to bring himself to leave.

The apartment was very bland, much to Armie’s surprise when he had arrived. The bare, white walls and sand-colored carpet rendered the apartment almost identical to every other one in Paris, making it hard for a stranger to distinguish who had lived in the small space before. Perhaps, one may hypothesize, once here lived a widow who was drawn in by the solitary atmosphere that the apartment offered. Or, maybe the past resident had been a professor, one who would rather spend his time looking over his work than care about interior design.

Armie knew better.

The subtle yet equally profound way that Timmy was able to ingrain himself in everything that he came into contact with was apparent to Armie by the small imperfections, like clues laid for him to find, scattered around the space. The stain that stood out on the floor next to the bed; the dent in the wall; a small, almost invisible pencil sketch on the wooden table -- It was all utterly Timmy.

Armie sat up in bed, holding his weight with one arm and using his other hand to rub the sleep out of his eyes. A stream of light, dull and amber, penetrated the thin curtains and illuminated the room in an early morning glow. He pulled the blanket off himself in one quick and dramatic motion, exposing his nude body to the light. He glanced down at his figure and frowned. Armie’s body, tanned and large against the white sheets, his sheets, was too much. He needed clothes.

With a heavy sigh, Armie pushed his weight forward so that he could balance himself as he stood. He shuffled towards the closet, not lifting his feet from the floor, and opened the small, dark wooden door. Shirts of various colors and designs, most of them having belonged to Timmy, hung from the many white hangers. Armie pushed each one aside individually, hoping to find something that could fit his large stature and failing miserably. Every shirt was small, delicate, and Timmy sized. Armie moved another shirt and froze.

It was silk, thin and smooth and reflecting the light in such a way that made it appear to glow. Armie knew this shirt. He loved this shirt. He brought it up to his face, inhaling deeply but only smelling the musty scent that engulfs clothes when they sit unworn for too long. Armie frowned, disappointed that there were no traces of who wore the shirt before.

The button-up was dark blue, a deep body of water, with a collar that had always hung low on Timmy’s small frame. It was the first thing that Armie had ever seen him in. Armie recalled the way that the dark fabric had contrasted Timmy’s pale complexion that night, the night that was the catalyst for every action which brought Armie to the point that he was at now.

\-------------

The song’s base, cutting through the thick crowd, knocked at Armie’s skull, so intense that it threatened to break through to his brain. There were bodies everywhere, the sweat and movement of limbs mixing erratically around him. The smell of alcohol was strong on the shared breath of the room, bitter and sweet, enough to make Armie feel slightly nauseous. The smell combined with the noise and multi-colored lights flashing around him did not help with the wicked headache that he felt growing at the front of his skull.

Armie tried to convince himself that he had left his house that night with only a light jacket, a casual, white-button up shirt, and good intentions. Looking back at that night, it was obvious to him that he knew exactly what he was doing. Maybe it wasn’t planned, but one could tell that each movement, in the way that Armie carried himself and in the way that he had taken his wedding ring off before leaving the house, was a sign that he was looking for something that night. He continued to play pleasantries in his head, convincing himself that if he could pretend to be good then others would believe it too. He wanted to be good. He was good.

Another drink is what he needed. If Armie could get one more, just one more, he may have been able to trick his brain into believing that he was having a good time. He pushed through the crowd, putting his arms ahead of him like shields so that he could deflect any person who was too drunk or too clumsy out of his way.

He approached the bar, leaning his weight against it to make himself smaller and less likely to be pushed by the crowd.

“What can I get you, man?” A young guy, he couldn’t have been much older than twenty-one, asked Armie from behind the bar.

He needed something quick that would get to him fast. 

“Just a shot,” responded Armie. “Whiskey.”

“Ah, man,” The bartender said, an apologetic look on his face. “We actually just ran out of whiskey.”

“How the hell do you run out of whiskey? This is a bar.”

“Sorry, dude.”

Armie groaned, pushing himself off of the bar and back into the thick of the crowd. Everyone was young, dressed in bright, small clothing and speaking to each other enthusiastically. Suddenly, Armie felt too old; he was too large and awkward as he stood among them. This was a mistake. He needed to leave.

He needed a cigarette.

Squeezing through the crowd once more, Armie made his way towards the exit. The contrast of the crisp night breeze with the club’s thick, stuffy atmosphere made Armie shiver, forcing him to tighten his jacket around himself as he pushed the door open. Slowly, he walked the length of the building, his footsteps sounding like gunshots echoing off the quiet street as he made his way to the alleyway behind the club. The smell of the rain from earlier that day still hung in the air, sticking to the slick surfaces of the road and cobblestone structures. He leaned against the wall, digging into his pocket and pulling out his carton of cigarettes.

He didn’t smoke often, only on nights like these when he had to get into the right headspace, when he needed to put on the persona of the tall, handsome stranger who went out clubbing, who smoked, who didn’t have a care in the world. He quickly fumbled for his lighter, bringing it up to the cigarette in his hand before taking the cigarette to his lips. He inhaled, feeling the smoke traveling to his lungs, his warm insides giving comfort from the cool breeze pushing against him in the alleyway.

“Excuse me.”

He turned to the voice. The man -- or boy, Armie thought, as he did look awfully young -- leaned against the wall inches from Armie. He must have approached silently, unnoticed by Armie despite the two standing so close together. The first thing Armie noticed was how tiny the other was, not necessarily short, though shorter than Armie (as most are), but thin and angular, bordering being bony. His shirt, blue and smooth, hung off of his delicate figure, and Armie had an overwhelming urge to offer the other his jacket.

“Yes?” Armie answered, smoke blowing from his mouth and nose. He quickly brought his free hand to cover his mouth in an attempt to stop the smoke from traveling to the boy, as Armie knew how annoying strangers blowing smoke in his face could be. The other didn’t seem to mind, actually leaning closer to Armie before speaking.

“Do you have another?” He asked, gesturing to the cigarette in Armie’s hand. “I left my pack at home, and I really am craving one.”

His voice was soft, and Armie detected a hint of an accent, though he was unable to pinpoint from where exactly it was. Now that the boy was closer, Armie could make out his face better. Similar to his body, it was sharp and thin, defined in a way that was masculine but femininely smooth, making him ambiguous enough to where Armie would probably mistake him for a girl from afar. His wavy, chestnut hair curled at the ears, perfectly framing his face. He was beautiful, similar to the way that a frail butterfly is beautiful, good for looking at but not to touch lest you break it. Armie wanted to get away from the boy as soon as possible.

“No, man,” Armie said casually, putting on a fake grin that he hoped looked friendly with a hint of sympathy but probably looked strained and awkward on his face. “This is my last one.”

“I saw you pull out a full pack.”

Armie furrowed his brows.

“Yeah, sorry,” Armie felt embarrassed being caught in a lie, his embarrassment being accompanied by annoyance with how quick this guy -- this stranger -- was to call him out on it. “Actually, I just don’t like sharing my bad habits with others. How old are you?”

“Oh,” the stranger sighed, making a hand gesture as if he was brushing something away that Armie couldn’t see. “You don’t have to worry about getting in trouble with that. I’m twenty-two.”

“You don’t look like it.”

“So I’ve been told.”

“Well,” Armie said, looking at the boy for a few moments before speaking again. “Lung cancer doesn’t discriminate. It’ll creep up on anyone no matter their age.”

“That’s very hypocritical,” the boy pointed out, staring at the cigarette in Armie’s hand.

Armie brought the cigarette up to his lips for one last inhale before he threw it to the ground, still long and nowhere near finished, stomping on it a couple of times with the heel of his shoe to take it out completely.

“There,” he said, glancing back towards the boy who now had an unreadable look on his face. “Now neither of us are smoking.”

“I’m sorry, you didn’t have to do that. I didn’t want for you to waste it. I shouldn’t have prodded,” the other raised his hands apologetically, his stubborn demeanor quickly washing away, now replaced with anxiety as he quickly spat out a string of apologies.

Armie held back a grin. He realized that the boy, like himself, had put on a persona, one that he thought could carry him through the night, maybe one that he thought could get him a free drink or maybe a free cigarette from a desperate stranger. Somehow, despite being complete strangers, they were both able to break through each others’ ruses in minutes.

“It’s fine, really,” Armie smiled, genuinely this time. “I shouldn’t be smoking anyway. And neither should you.” He pointed at the other man sternly, like a teacher scolding a child, deepening his voice comedically.

The other chuckled, visibly relaxing a little but not completely.

“I’m Armie,” He said after a moment, reaching his hand to the stranger.

“Timmy,” the boy grinned, taking Armie’s hand in his smaller one.

“Are you waiting for anyone, Timmy? A date or some friends to go clubbing with?”

“No. I usually come here alone, I never seem to leave that way though.”

He was building his walls back up, Armie knew. Timmy was young and beautiful, tragically so, and Armie was suddenly hit with a realization. Attractive young men don’t come to clubs by themselves. They definitely don’t talk to men who are almost a decade older than them. The low hanging collar, showing a little too much skin; the way that he asked for a smoke, a line that he probably used on other guys before; the subtle flirting.

Armie shook his head. He would never admit it -- he was supposed to be good -- but Timmy was exactly the type of thing that he was looking for that night. Now that very thing was standing inches from him, his eyes full of anticipation of what Armie’s next move would be. Armie tried to convince himself that this wasn’t what he was searching for. He was better than that. He was better than the boy who stood next to him.

‘That’s very hypocritical,’ Timmy’s voice rang in his head.

“You know,” Armie finally spoke, his voice quiet as he leaned closer to Timmy. “My friends actually just canceled on me too.” A lie.

They both stood there for a moment, saying nothing but thinking everything at the same time. A group of guys, drunk and loud, passed by them, bantering and shoving at each other in a friendly manner. For a second, a flash of jealousy came over Armie. They were young, probably in college, and they reminded him of himself at that age. The group of boys and Armie, while once being identical, were now nowhere near the same.

“We should probably get out of here,” Armie finally said after the group passed, looking at Timmy, trying to say what he wanted to without actually saying it.

Timmy’s eyes lit up and he smiled seductively, leaning impossibly closer, so close that he and Armie were almost touching.

“Can you afford me?”

Armie stopped breathing for a second. He had hoped that he had the guy pegged all wrong, maybe he was just young and horny, inexperienced. However, the one question confirmed all of Armie’s suspicions.

“I can pay,” Armie responded curtly, wanting to leave the damned ally as fast as possible.

“Your place or mine?”

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, and thank you for reading! This is my first work of "serious" fanfiction, and I would really appreciate any support and constructive criticism that anyone is willing to give. I plan on trying to update weekly, but I'm a really slow writer and am currently in school and looking for a job so, fair warning, updates may be irregular. Anyway, thanks again for reading and I look forward to sharing more of my writing with y'all.


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